


Resplendent Gold (Bleeding in Black)

by Bamf_babe



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Gen, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, No beta we die like stregobor should have, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Wingfic, there aren't enough wings fics in this fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25225987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bamf_babe/pseuds/Bamf_babe
Summary: A Witcher’s wings are unique, a bright golden color renowned across the continent for its beauty, yet still, Witchers are ostracized and feared.You see, there’s a rumor that the golden wings are a trap, a facade. Jaskier knows better. He has been with Geralt for almost two years now and has seen no other color present. And he’s been with Geralt constantly. Well, almost constantly. You see, when the Witcher fights, he won’t let anyone watch.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 21
Kudos: 330





	Resplendent Gold (Bleeding in Black)

Jaskier remembers the first time he saw a corpse. It was at the funeral of his grandmother. He remembered that he wasn’t particularly sad. He hadn’t really known her and she had been quite old and had passed peacefully in her sleep. The eulogy was a blur and the wake a barely-there memory. He must have been only six or seven years old. What stuck with him from that funeral was the color of his grandmother’s wings. He had seen a picture of her, hanging in the parlor. She had the cerulean blue wings edged with black that most of his family had. Bluebird’s wings, his family would say, the wings of artists. Currently, his wings were young and still brown with white splotches here and there. Just the tips of his wings were blue as if dipped in paint. He’d grow into them, his mother said. 

However, as Jaskier looked at the open casket for his grandmother and saw her wings, wrapped around her in a funeral shroud they were no longer blue but the darkest midnight black. He had been confused. Had she dyed her wings later in life with ichor? Had she actually been ill and died of poisoning. 

Confused, he had asked his mother and she had sighed, muttering something about overlooking his education. Then, she crouched down and pushed his hair out of his face and said, “Julian, darling, our life, our soul is stored in our wings. Therefore, when someone dies, their wings turn black. Their soul has left them and with that, the color in their wings.”

He had started crying then, all of seven years old and just realizing the inevitability of death and mortality. He had been loud and his father had ended up taking him out of the room and holding him until he calmed down. 

For the next few weeks, Jaskier wasn’t able to sleep unless one of his parents checked over every inch of his wings, looking for any black feathers. Of course, they never found any. Black feathers only appeared if someone was gravely ill or close to death. 

Jaskier eventually grew up and went off to Oxenfurt, by this time he had in fact grown into his wings which were now a glorious blue that was rather eye-catching if he did say so himself. It matched his eyes perfectly and he had many a fellow artist at the academy write poetry or songs about how they matched like the ocean, cornflowers, bluebirds, take your pick. 

Still, Jaskier craved something more. He wasn’t like the other stuffy academics at Oxenfurt, always keeping his wings tucked in tight to his back, flying only just enough to stay airbound, and never expressing his emotions through his wings. Jaskier was freedom. He would fly across the quad to get to classes faster, he would let friends and lovers alike groom his wings and oftentimes he would knock over objects left and right as his gesticulated with his wings while performing. His professors called it improper but he still mastered the seven liberal arts before he was out of his teens. 

He wandered from town to town, performing for anyone who would listen. Jaskier liked his performances on the streets best, where he could use his wings properly to gesture and flutter along with his music. Inside, he had to be a little more subdued and he thinks that it was reflected in his music. He was not, by any use of the term, popular, but he was excited. As Jaskier traveled further, met more people, he felt his heart grow strong. However, there was a constant churning feeling that he hadn’t found his destiny, his place. Then he looked across the room at a tavern in Posada and saw resplendent golden wings. 

Jaskier had, of course, heard about Witchers. Monster-hunters, people told him. Point them in the direction of the nearest beast and away they would go. Then, hours later they would return with the creature’s head or not at all. However, the real sticking point was their wings. Witchers had golden cat eyes and wings to match. They were beautiful, golden and bright and deadly. However, no matter how worse off a Witcher was when they came back from battle, their wings were never sullied. This led to nasty rumors about how their wings were a trap for the weak-minded. That touching a Witcher’s wings would poison you and if you plucked a feather it would slice you like a sword. Their wings might have been the most beautiful on the continent, but they were also the most feared. 

This particular Witcher was unknown to Jaskier, yet after he walked up and made a pitiful attempt at conversation he recognized him. This was Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken. He had killed over a dozen men there, all good people, or so Jaskier was told. 

The man tried to brush him off, to push him away, but Jaskier followed along, clinging to the aura of adventure the man held around him like a cloud. He couldn’t wait to see what Geralt would bring into his life. 

Jaskier wasn’t disappointed. Geralt was brave enough for an entire traveling theatre to draw inspiration from and it seemed as though his songs were becoming easier to write by the day. He painted Geralt as a hero from tales of old, saving villages, rescuing damsels and standing up for justice everywhere. Of course, none of his songs would be complete without mention of Geralt’s wings. 

By this point, Jaskeir could practically fill an entire book with words he had used to describe the intoxicating color. Golden, glimmering, flaxen, fair, aureate, glorious, rich, shining. It drew crowds in. 

It also pushed Geralt out, whenever Jaskier would describe a battle in his song, Geralt with swords out leaping into the air to slay the monster, the man would gain a curious frown on his face and leave. Jaskier assumed he hated listening to songs about himself but there was something deeper he couldn’t explain. 

Geralt never let Jaskier watch him in a fight. He had to constantly pry Geralt for details or make them up himself. Geralt said it was because Jaskier was a liability and the one time Jaskier had tried to follow Geralt going after a Kikimore, the Witcher had left him in the woods. 

Honestly, with how little Geralt let other people tend to him, it was amazing how well-groomed his wings were. There was just the small patch of displaced feathers in his upper wing coverts, near the center of his back. Geralt could never reach them with his hands and so whenever they traveled together, Jaskier would notice them, disheveled and at odd angles. It surely couldn’t be comfortable so one night over the fire, he looked at Geralt and made a leap. 

“I could groom your wings for you, if you like,” Jaskier said, “In fact, if you could groom my wings as well I would be very pleased, it’s been a while since the last town and they are beginning to feel a little ruffled if you understand what I mean.”

To make his point, Jaskier fluffed up his feathers a bit. 

Geralt paused then spoke, “I suppose you can,” he said at last. Then he turned around and shook his wings, just a bit. 

Jaskier took a good look at them. Honestly, Geralt’s wings were massive. They were built for large, powerful bursts of flights whereas Jaskier’s were slimmer and built more for speed than anything else. He reached out to adjust the feathers and had to visibly bite back a sigh. They were incredibly soft and once again Jaskier wondered how Geralt kept his wings in such great condition when he seemed to pay so little attention to them. The most Jaskier had seen him do was wash his wings while bathing in the river. 

He supposed it must be a Witcher thing. Geralt relaxed as Jaskier continued to run his hands through the feathers, gently threading them into place. In fact, this was the calmest Jaskier had ever seen Geralt and he couldn’t help but hum a tune from one of his catchier songs as he worked. 

As he would, Jaskier let humming behind rapidly enough and began to sing softly, the word sounding louder without any instrument to accompany. At first, Jaskier didn’t notice the humming cutting into his harmonizing but then once he caught the sound he was hard-pressed not to stop singing in surprise. It was Geralt, humming along to Jaskier’s singing. 

He knew that the wolf knew his songs! Jaskier’s heart filled with warmth as he continued singing and listening to Geralt gently hum along. He felt content. Once he finished with Geralt wings he pulled his hands away and stopped singing. All at once, Geralt’s shoulders tensed again and he stopped humming. 

Jaskier felt a sadness at the loss of the intimacy they had shared previously but he couldn’t have groomed Geralt’s wings forever. So he turned himself around and called out, “Alright, now can you do mine? Some of my primaries are very ticklish, I will warn you.”

Geralt grunted and he heard him turn around, “Alright Jaskier.”

The bard bit his lip to stop any sound from coming out when Geralt’s hand touched his wings. For the past few years, he had only had lovers grooming his wings so he had come to associate the act with a bit of pleasure. And Geralt did nothing to stop that association. He was gentle and meticulous, carefully putting each feather in its place and not lingering too long. Jaskier could feel Geralt’s light touch and it had been too long since he had been properly groomed. He practically melted into the Witcher’s hands and his wings spread out along the ground. 

This marked a change in their relationship. Now, Jaskier would groom Geralt’s wings whenever they were looking a little shabby and every now and then would adjust an out-of-place feather whenever he saw it. Geralt grew used to Jaskier touching his wings and no longer leaned away from his touch. And Jaskier had a consistent grooming partner. The biggest issue with having different people constantly grooming your wings was that they would never know the little quirks. That’s why a lot of wing-grooming happened between family and friends. He had not had that luxury in years. Until now. Geralt knew that Jaskier always had a secondary that pushed to the left and was very ticklish on his primaries. Jaskier knew that Geralt never was able to properly groom his upper wing coverts and was very sensitive close to his spine. It was nice, to have another person know you in this way. 

Yet, no matter how close they grew Jaskier had still not seen Geralt fight. His songs grew in popularity, they were sung around the continent and nowadays Jaskier’s name was known before they ever entered a tavern. But every description of battle, every word used to describe Geralt’s golden wings in battle felt empty to Jaskier. They were false, a lie he had concocted. He didn’t truly know how Geralt must look in battle, wings spread wide and sword raised up. He had to guess. He was tired of guessing. 

When Jaskier finally saw Geralt in battle, it was completely unplanned. They were walking alone along a foggy road at the end of Spring heading to Temeria. There were trees on either side of the road and swampland further it. Jaskier was passing the time by playing his lute and singing whatever tune popped into his head. Occasionally he would flap his wings and glide just a few feet above the ground, watching as the thick fog dissipated just a bit before it would envelop him again as his feet touched the ground. 

As always, Geralt would roll his eyes at Jaskier’s antics yet the bard definitely saw Geralt experimentally flap his wings to push the fog away once or twice. Then out of nowhere, Jaskier was tackled and he watched as a drowner was sitting on his chest, sharp teeth inches away from his jugular. 

Jaskier quickly pulled out a dagger from his side and stabbed it into the drowner’s head. It rolled off of him with a squelching noise and he scrambled up. One he found his footing he looked around, seeing more shapes of drowners appearing through the fog. 

“Fuck,” Geralt said and the both of them began backing up towards Roach. 

Theoretically, they could fly away but Geralt had taken on worse than a nest of drowners plenty of times, and leaving would mean abandoning their supplies and Roach herself. Geralt might just let himself be killed before that horse. 

Geralt looked torn, then he turned towards Jaskier and said, “Can you close your eyes? Please?”

It burned Jaskier, to know that he could finally get to watch Geralt in battle but he closed his eyes dutifully and refused to look. He trusted Geralt and if he didn’t want to see, well, then Jaskier wouldn’t look. 

He heard the sound of Geralt opening Roach’s saddlebag and the clink of glass. Jaskier wondered what it could be, some type of potion? Then Geralt grunted and Jaskeir heard his wings quiver like the rustling leaves before the unmistakable sound of Geralt drawing his sword. 

Jaskier could not truly describe the battle, mostly it just sounded like a fair amount of grunts, slashes, and the high-pitched cries of the drowners. Then it was silent. In fact, it was too silent. Geralt didn’t make a sound. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier cried out, “Geralt if you don’t respond in 5 seconds, promise or no promise I am opening my eyes and helping you!”

Silence. Slowly, Jaskier opened his eyes and what he saw made his heart stop. There, just off the road was Geralt, surrounded my drowner corpses. His wings were black. 

Jaskier scrambled to his feet and ran over to Geralt’s body (not corpse, it couldn’t be..) and tried to turn him over on his back so he could see his face. He held Geralt on his lap and held his head in his hands. His skin was pale, so pale with stark black veins running across his skin. 

“Not like this Geralt, please, please,” Jaskier felt tears in his eyes and he brushed Geralt’s long white hair out of his face and felt the fog creeping around his legs. 

Then Geralt groaned, “As if a drowner nest could kill me.”

His eyes opened and Jaskier almost starting shaking in relief. He looked at Geralt’s wings, still black as pitch and then back to the Witcher’s face, alive and breathing. Then he looked at Geralt’s eyes again. Completely black, the same color as his wings. 

“How…” Jaskier said.

Then Geralt pushed himself up to a seated position slowly and painfully and Jaskier saw Geralt shake his wings and in an undulating motion, the feathers turned from black to gold again. When Jaskier looked into Geralt’s eyes, they were golden once more and his skin wasn’t quite so pale and the black veins were gone as well. 

Then Geralt fell back and groaned in pain.

“Jaskier,” he said, “I need one of the potions from the saddlebags, one of the drowners bit me, poison. I need...the golden one.”

The bard nodded and leapt up, running to the saddlebag and pushing through the various small potions until he saw the small golden vial. He ran back to Geralt’s side and tipped the potion into his mouth. 

All at once, Geralt’s wings shimmered into being pitch black again and his eyes turned dark, his skin paler and his veins discolored. It was like watching a corpse come to life but Jaskier did not leave. He kept eye contact with Geralt as this strange change overtook him. 

Geralt sighed in relief as the potion apparently began to do its job and the poison was no longer a danger. Geralt stood up, his black wings ruffling and Jaskier couldn’t help but stare. 

Only corpses ever had black wings, there were no mutations, no diseases that could ever produce a fully black set of wings. Therefore, no human had ever seen a pair of black wings that could move, that were attached toa real, breathing person. It was extraordinary. 

Geralt caught Jaskier staring and turned away, hiding his black eyes from view. Unconsciously, Geralt’s wings seemed to curl around him. 

“Don’t worry,” he said, “it will wear off in a few minutes.”

Jaskier stepped forward, moving closer to Geralt, “Is this why no one has ever seen a Witcher fight?”

“It’s the potions, they are full of enough toxins to kill any human. So, it strips our wings of color whenever they are in effect. It has been centuries since any human has caught sight of our wings in battle. We were considered the risen dead then, unnatural.”

Geralt seemed to shrink in on himself even more at that moment and Jaskier wanted nothing more than to hold Geralt in his own wings but this required more precision. 

“I don’t think they are unnatural,” Jaskier said, walking around Geralt so he could see his face, “I think they are a marvel.”

“A marvel,” Geralt said, giving a self-deprecating laugh, “these are the wings of a corpse Jaskier.”

“Or are they the wings of a warrior?”

“You are likely the first human to think so in many millennia.”

Jaskier huffed, “Then I am proud of it. Your wings, resplendent in gold or bleeding in black are one of the beautiful sights I have ever laid eyes on and I would give up my own just to convince you of this truth.”

Geralt looked at Jaskier, his eyes still black, and gave a small smile, “Poetic,” he said. 

“You damn well bet it is,” returned Jaskier and as Geralt’s wings shimmered back into gold the bard pulled the witcher into a tight hug, enveloping his now gold wings in his blue ones. 

There are rumors that the golden wings of a Witcher are a trap, a falsity hiding a cruel truth beneath it. However, Jaskier differently, he knows that when a Witcher takes up arms, the gold lifts not to reveal a cruel truth but a hidden gift. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hey, if you like this, let me know in the comments what other things you'd want to see in this universe and maybe I'll turn this into a series!!


End file.
